


Better together

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Lack of Communication, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Miscommunication, Pining, Pining while in a established relationship, Post-Canon, but they're both morons, moron4moron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25434901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: Finally free to love and live in peace, Aziraphale and Crowley have settled in the South Downs, but when the thought about marriage drills into Crowley's brain and Aziraphale remains silent, everything starts to shatter.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 156





	Better together

Crowley’s perfectly fine. That he is. In tune with the world that didn't end, and all that New Age philosophy he'd craftmanshiped in a drunk night a whole lot of years ago, just to piss Aziraphale off.

But anyway.

He’s fine. Not a single regret from his part. Nope. He has Aziraphale and that’s good. More than good. Excellent he'd say. 

He'd got his fair share of angelic kisses and brain wrecking love making, mapping every span of freckled skin with more than eager hands. Better yet, he'd got to be the sole cause of Aziraphale's stuttering  _ thank yous _ over a bouquet of roses, the flush of soft cheeks at the whisper of fervent  _ I love yous _ . And thank  _ Lord Byron _ , he'd got to see Aziraphale finally unwind.

Crowley wouldn't trade that for the world. Or better be said, he would've trade Heaven and Hell for it. And that he did.

And yet, there are moments such like this, just when the sun sets on the soft hills of Hampshire and Aziraphale waltzes around their living room, reshelving his scattered books, that Crowley wonders why this Thought has ensnared his heart in a vice-like grip. His gut all a messy tangle. 

A  _ Thought _ deserving an uppercase if only for the amount of time Crowley had caught it idly swirling in the static of his brain. 

_ Why Aziraphale hasn't said a thing about marriage? _

It's been two years since they've been together.

It’s moronic, ridiculous even, for an immortal being to have devoted so many minutes, so many days to such a menial argument against the worst part of himself. And he would deny it if asked-- no, no, he would absolutely terrify to their knickers anyone who dares to imply something like that, but---

It makes him feel rather unfit.

In better moods he challenges himself -  _ a construct, a human scheme - which it is -, him and Aziraphale were beyond that, Aziraphale doesn't even entertains the idea at all, six thousand years of love triumph over a promise withering with death.  _

That's not their reality and fuck him if he had to include bloody Death in their new sought life. 

But then, there’s the part that comes with the reassurance, with the urge to yell to anyone and everyone in all the dimensions where they pulsed, how much they love each other. How much they need each other. And blasted him. He craves that.

Somehow now that both of them pitched themselves over the boundaries of millenia, making Earth their home, it feels---  _ right _ . Like a banner to yield stating where they stand.

It's so utterly human.

So demon or not, Crowley isn't impervious to the idea of marriage -- but apparently Aziraphale is. And Crowley isn't about to push that thought further and out of the confinement of his brain, if it means to see Aziraphale balking at the idea. Doesn’t think he can take it. 

Stupid. Really stupid.

"Dearest?" 

"Mmm?" 

"Are you quite alright?"

Crowley blinks once behind his shades and shoves his trainwreck of thoughts, down. "Yeah, angel, why do you ask?"

"Because you're positively mangling the broccoli, and that's unjust for the poor fellow."

Crowley stops mid carnage, and realizes perhaps there’s an excess of force being exerted over the unaware vegetable. He relaxes and gives Aziraphale a smirk. "This is  _ my _ technique. Been improving it since who knows when so--" He sets the broccoli aside and chops a carrot hiding his ill intent. 

"And that's my favorite cutboard so please, be gentle."

"You don't even cook. How can you have a favorite cutboard?"

Aziraphale simply resorts to give him the same smile he uses to flash along the word  _ ineffable, _ and crosses his hands primly over the counter. Crowley gathers his vegetables in a bowl and tosses them to the pot. He can feel Aziraphale's eyes stuck to the back of his head as he stirs the stew, his focus so intense it’s almost  _ loud _ .

"Yes, angel? I can hear you thinking from over there," he bristles, twirling around.

Aziraphale's brows are now knitted in what’s evidently concern, lighting a pang of guilt in Crowley’s gut. "Oh, no, dear, it's just-- you look rather odd."

"I'm fine, seriously, right as rain," he lies. "Just thinking-- why are we entertaining humans now?"

"Oh, Crowley, we're not--" Aziraphale stands and walks to him, lacing strong, warm arms around Crowley's middle and setting his chin on his shoulder. "They're friends. And Tracy said she had exciting news. Isn't that amazing?"

"I’m chuffed to my tits," he drones.

Aziraphale tuts. "It's been too long since we've had any friends, dear. Perhaps it’s a good thing to get reacquainted with the people that helped us."

"What for? To get attached and then oh look, 'he's dying at the disappointing age of 85'." Crowley takes one of Aziraphale's hands and kisses the beloved knuckles. "I don’t want to see you suffer when that happens."

"I have you now," Aziraphale says, humming his words against the skin of Crowley’s neck and positively wrecking Crowley’s nervous system as a result. "I bet I'll be quite alright."

* * *

It's almost nine when dinner is finally over and Crowley can't take one more second or syllable of the chit-chat Tracy and Aziraphale are invested in. At least Shadwell looks as miserable as him, if not more. 

"Oh, Aziraphale, dear, the meal was marvellous," Madame Tracy says, setting down her fork and blotting her lips with a napkin.

"Now, now, it was all Crowley." Aziraphale pats at Crowley's knee slightly grinding his own leg against his. _ Coquettish little angel _ . He’s looking at Crowley with a bright smile, his eyes almost glittering with delight and it makes Crowley regret even more the overabundance of guests. "He's absolutely wonderful a chef."

"Do you hear Sergeant?" Tracy elbows the man, that's half snoring already, startling him up enough to look at them warily. "You should try and cook us dinner, sometime."

"Och,  _ weel…  _ perhaps-- I s'ppose there's nae harm in that,” says Shadwell and shrugs noncommittally. 

“Tracy, darling, I can’t let you go without telling us what were those news you talked about on the phone?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley rolls his eyes, expecting another half an hour of useless tirade about the proper way of making raspberry jam.

“Oh!” Tracy giggles, as Sergeant Shadwell leans into her chair and curls his mouth in what’s supposed to be his best effort of a smile, Crowley thinks. A bit unnerving if anything. “We’re getting married!”

Aziraphale’s smile falters for a moment, blue eyes open wide, before stuttering his heartfelt congratulations. Crowley, on his part, manages a half smirk, feeling his brain twisting again to his earlier banging on about the Thought . The whole situation feels a bit on the nose to the liking of his gut.

“That’s really-- those are terrific news!” Aziraphale declares and Crowley feels the instant wavelength of love unfurling over the room. Everything feels sparkly. New. Cozy. “Marriage is really a blessing,” Aziraphale muses, staring at their not at all interesting ceiling, “to find the person to which commit your life for eternity, it’s truly the highest form of joy.” 

_ Huh _ .

Crowley doesn’t have time to parse the pounds of contradicting emotions pulling at every single seam of his brain, before he’s ushered out by Aziraphale to get a bottle of  _ Louis Roderer _ champagne. He’s back at the diner soon enough and in a swirl of elegance, Aziraphale sets a glass in each of their hands. 

“Now, a toast is in order,” Aziraphale says, to which Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell rise their flutes. Crowley does the same, not very much attuned with what's going on around him. “To Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell, may your union be as joyful and everlasting as you both intend, because nothing brings more bliss than a chosen wedlock, and that’s the true pattern of celestial peace.”

The words don’t escape Crowley. After all it’d been Aziraphale the one who’d all but dragged him to watch the premier of Henry VI, first row, in what Crowley now has catalogued as the human equivalent of a first date. Still enmeshed in the ramifications of every verb, noun and conjugation spelled by Aziraphale in the past fifteen minutes, Crowley’s just half aware of the  _ good byes,  _ hugs and  _ so longs _ , Aziraphale is dispensing.

_ 'Give Sgt. Milk Bottle's family my regards. We'll send a check this week. _ '

_ 'It was so wonderful to see you, dear-- oh, dear Lord! That’s quite a hug-- it does feel a bit tingly.' _

Fifteen minutes later, they're alone again and Aziraphale is dragging him to bed with well placed kisses that have the ability to render Crowley to a puddle of demonic goo.

When they land on the mattress - mouth to neck, hand to the curve of a hip - Crowley has forgotten everything about his dilemma.

* * *

The thing with unwarranted information is that sometimes it gets to knock you off your feet and make you land unceremoniously on your arse. Up until now Crowley hadn't considered - really considered, not just superficially mopped about it - the fact that the biggest  _ X _ of the marriage equation could be, well, him.

Aziraphale at least seems pretty in favor of the idea. Which makes a whole lot of sense; out of the two of them, Aziraphale's the one that can truly be called a traditionalist. The angel still thinks garter socks are a necessity, for someone's sake.

And the thought is terrifying. Why hadn't he brought up the idea to Crowley? 

In the following weeks Crowley susses out the situation swaying from roaring hope to bruising reality. And soon he realizes something awful is brewing up inside him. 

One particular morning he wakes up earlier than usual, pale mauve streaks in the sky, and scurries into the bathroom leaving the comfortable warmth of Aziraphale's side. His reflection in the mirror looks bedraggled. A phrase has been haunting him all night and has conjured a mishmash of venom and yearning, pricking like pin and needles on his skin.

_ To choose the right person to spend eternity with. _

Those had been Aziraphale's words. That's exactly what Aziraphale thinks and perhaps-- perhaps--

Perhaps eternity is too big a word, too long a time for Aziraphale consider to tether himself to Crowley. 

Crowley's heartbeat rises, a glancing blow off his chest. He glances upwards and stares at himself. What can he offer to Aziraphale, honestly? He's an outcast by definition. A fallen. Nothing's going to change that. And Aziraphale has to remind that every single day just looking at his eyes. His snake eyes. Yellow as sulphur and quite as hideous. 

No, no, none of that. Aziraphale  _ loves _ him. No need to pretend, and yet-- Angels are supposed to love by definition, that’s their raw material. What if Aziraphale - kind, soft, lovely, gentle Aziraphale - has changed his mind? What if he's now trapped into another arrangement and can't find his way out of the demonic bed he tucked himself into?

Urgh. 

It should be illegal to be able to think this much in the morning. Would it be possible to unplug his brain without collapsing on the floor?

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice sounds sleep-hoarse, a gentle rumble more than actual words. 

“Bathroom,” Crowley says tersely.

“Well, come back here soon. It’s too early-- Especially for you.”

“Coming, angel, give me a minute.”

Crowley splashes some water on his face and tousles his hair, trying to quiet the madhouse in his brain. He finally reaches their bed and slides under the warm covers. It feels like home. Aziraphale slings an arm around his waist and nuzzles his ear, and Crowley finally lets the venom slurrying in his veins to drip out. 

* * *

Roughly six months later, by spring, Crowley has to admit he’s developed an obscene obsession around the idea of the impossibility of them getting married.

Tracy reins in Aziraphale to her bridal entourage and the cottage gets filled with magazines, samples of every single kind of fabric for the wedding dress, paper for the invitations and reunions with the - frankly obnoxious - wedding planner. Why the bride has decided to sequester their home? Crowley has no fucking clue. 

Aziraphale seems delighted with the preparations, but there’s a slight shift in his demeanor whenever they’re alone that leaves Crowley grinding his teeth the more he thinks about it. Like if there were words poised on his lips, Aziraphale can't manage to spill. And what if finally Aziraphale realized he made a mistake? That while Crowley’s in love, so deeply, it leaves him staggering at the idea to lose him, Aziraphale just-- settled? 

Crowley feels wretched. Wrecked. Him whole just flotsam and jetsam adrift in senseless nothing. 

He finds himself snapping at the angel for the smallest things, picking fights for no reason, shapeshifting into a snake when he needs to escape, and napping quite more than the ordinary. The bed feels bereft when the angel is not there; Crowley misses the warm weight of his hand on his cheek, the softness of his lips-- but still he thanks him for it. Crowley doesn’t think he could deal with it. 

How can he bring the matter to Aziraphale? To tell him he knows. He  _ knows _ . Crowley catches the question several times between his teeth and grinds it down into nothing.

Coiled beneath a hanging pot in their garden in a rainy day, Crowley mourns. 

* * *

The reception for Madam Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell takes place in a beautiful orchard near Tadfield. Crowley is there with Aziraphale, all senses numbed to the space awash with lavender lights and the smiley faces swirling around him. He hadn’t brought himself to stay back at home because idiotic as it is, apparently Crowley has a streak for masochism if it implies not seeing Aziraphale miserable. Nothing new here, just the pre traced path of millenia.

Now, sitting next to the angel, surrounded by Frank Sinatra pouring from the speakers and couples kissing at each other, he’s not so sure about having made the right call.

"Crowley…" Aziraphale reaches to him, grazing the heel of Crowley's hand with his knuckles. An edge of raw pain laced with longing, traps Crowley's heart with iron bars. It's pathetic how much he craves to be enough.  _ Let me be enough for you, angel.  _

“Hey, you two!”

The moment snaps like a string tuned too tightly. Anathema and Newt are trudging in their direction, waving hands, sporting smiles. Shit. Just what he needs. More people to pretend around. 

Aziraphale shifts in his seat, now both hands around his whisky glass, the hint of a twitch in his jaw. “Oh, hello there, quite nice to see you both." Crowley on his part, raises his glass as sole welcome. "How are you doing?"

"Well, pretty decently, all things considered," she says, making Newt and her take vacant seats in the table. 

"I take you made Tadfield your home, then?"

"We both did, it's such a beautiful place and the forests are perfect for my work." Anathema turns to Newt and softly places a peck on his lips and Crowley's toes curl in his snake boots. She then beam at them. "And look! We're engaged!"

Anathema extends a hand with a ring on it, and Crowley can see, can  _ feel _ every joint and muscle in Aziraphale's body tensing, the shadow of a frown marring his expression. 

It's too much.

Crowley storms off from the party, forging his way through the guests, his pulse a noisy blood rush in his ears. He reaches the far side of the orchard, and takes his blazer off, the material so constricting it's already difficult to breath. 

He leans forward, bending his legs, hands placed on bony knees. Fuck this feeling.

"Crowley?"

He winces at the beloved sinsong of his name. What a hapless bastard he is right now. 

"Hey, angel."

Aziraphale gets closer, tentatively placing a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright, dear?"

_ No. Fuck no _ .

"Yeah, just-- " Crowley levers himself upright, rolling the sharp angle of his shoulders in a slithering shrug and Aziraphale pulls his hand away. "It's this whole charade…" Crowley says, circling a hand to make his point.

Aziraphale recoils back a step. "Ah. I see."

"I just-- I wish I hadn't come here you know?" Crowley can feel the press of his foolhardy, dangerous thoughts, pushing out. Out. Out. "I thought I'd made peace with the fact that you do want a marriage--"

"Oh dear..." Aziraphale says, plaintively.

"Only that not with me."

There. Now is out and there's nothing Crowley can do to swallow the words back down.

"What?" The question is just a notch down from a shriek.

"That I get you do want to marry but apparently I'm not the one."

"What in the name of  _ someone,"  _ Aziraphale says, briskly, closing the space between them in a rush, "makes you think that?"

Aziraphale's brows are furrowed, lips pinched tight, and Crowley's months of pent-up frustration stumble out of his mouth. "You kept talking about this and about that and how it's good to find the right person and all that, but you haven't even asked!"

"Well, you haven't either, have you?"

Aziraphale's obnoxious rational process sacks Crowley in the head like a bat. 

"What do you mean  _ I  _ haven't asked--"

"That I've been trying to tell you for months that if you're amenable I would've said yes, you big lummox!"

"Tell me?" Crowley seizes part of the statement with claws and fangs, the rest of the words dancing in front of him like a mirage.

"And then you started to scurry away, as if I was poisonous!" Aziraphale continues, ignoring him. "I thought you were averse to the idea of marriage-- the way you looked at everything related to it… what was I supposed to think?"

" _ Tell me _ ?" Crowley repeats in a yelp. 

"Why, yes! Everytime you were nigh I prompted the subject-- to give you ideas-- to encourage you--"

"I thought you were trying to tell me you wanted that but not with me!" Some of the tension lingering on Crowley's shoulder blades starts to fade, that knot in his throat finally unraveling. "What kind of couching a message is that anyway?"

"Well, yes, I think I rather failed, did I?"

"You _ think _ ? I thought you were going to leave me!" 

"And why would I do that? I love you, you silly serpent," Aziraphale spits. 

"Oh yeah? Well, I love you, you relic," Crowley bites back.

Aziraphale grasps palmfuls of Crowley's shirt and all but crushes his mouth with his lips. There are warring tongues and scraping teeth, noses in all the wrong and right places, as they shift into a smooth flow of just right. Meant.

"Angel," Crowley rasps, speckled breath over soft lips, " we need to stop doing this-- this way of trying to let the other one know what we want-- It's the Babylon Tower, all over again."

"I'd say you're quite right, dearest." Aziraphale weaves fingers in Crowley's hair, thumbing the shell of his ear. "After all it took us six millenia to get here and I wouldn't want to wait six more if you please."

"Oh, fuck no. That'd be the biggest case of bollocksing shit up-- ever."

Aziraphale laughs, that deep-full beautiful belly laugh of his and bundles Crowley's hand in his, kissing it. "So, Crowley, Serpent of Eden, love of my life, would you marry me?"

Crowley's face scrunches up in a whole wide grin, his heart soaring. Aziraphale’s soft eyes are aglow with such fondness it takes Crowley’s breath away. 

"Shut up and kiss me, you bastard."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes, angel, fuck yes."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
